Accounting
by farscott
Summary: So why is he so afraid? Afraid the whole ring problem will become moot. What is the source of that fear? In a word, the problem is BILLY. And, yes, he thinks the name in all capital letters. BILLY is that sort of problem. BILLY is the third party in the relationship, and the one most likely to cause it to end. BILLY is trouble for Richard Castle, trouble of his own making.
1. Regrets and Insomnia

Standing in front of the open safe in his study, he ejected the magazine of the Glock 19, swiftly cycled the slide, and deftly caught the round which moments before had been chambered. After placing the round in his hand in the "range box" in the safe, he topped off the magazine with a previously not-chambered round and returned it to its niche in the safe. His attention then turned to the presumably empty gun which was lying on a felt-covered shelf with the slide locked to the rear. He checked both visually and with a finger in the chamber to insure the gun was indeed empty, pulled back the slide, rode it to battery, and squeezed the trigger to release the striker.

The crunchy sound of the striker being propelled by its spring to hit nothing but air was remarkably loud in the quiet study. There was almost an echo and he could see the spring vibrating in his mind's eye. Even now, he observed and noted the details. He then placed the gun into the safe next to his three identical pistols on the shelf, closed the heavy yet perfectly balanced door of the safe with a muted thump, and locked the door. The guns were now secured, and he had one less source of anxiety.

He was not a fan of the Glock when he started the _Nikki Heat_ novels, which is why she carries the DAO SIG P226, one of the two other approved NYPD semi-automatics. The SIG was also the most expensive of the three, which was really the reason he chose it for Nikki. But his partner carried the Glock, so he acquired six and became more than proficient with them. He also learned to appreciate the elegant simplicity of the design as it reminded him of her. Elegant yet all business was an apt description for both.

Three Glock 19 and three Glock 26 pistols, all with the NY1 trigger spring required for NYPD use, were in the safe as well as her personal guns, including the Remington 870 riot gun that once was in the trunk of her unmarked Crown Vic. A backup gun for each of hers and two for him as he had learned in one of the classes he took for research and saw for himself in the field that "two is one and one is none". As a native New Yorker, guns were supposed to be hard to get due to the Sullivan Act. That was not true for him. He had friends in high places and a "true need" for a sidearm due to both his fame and his consultancy with the NYPD. He even got the guns for the LEO "Blue Label" price direct from Rodham's Neck, meaning the six guns cost less $3000.

On this gray, overcast cold winter day, he found himself chilled to the bone even though his home was kept at 68 degrees, but he knew the source of the chill was not something physical. His spirit was cold as if it knew death was near. Dealing with her guns had chilled him even further. Walking to his desk, he found a crystal tumbler and a bottle of scotch. As he moved behind the wood expanse, he poured himself two fingers of the dark amber liquid, dropped into the office chair, and leaned back in the comfortable seat. Instead of drinking the aromatic liquor, he stared into the heavy lead glass as if the liquid inside could unlock the mysteries she embodied. The liquor was as forthcoming as she was. Finding no answers in the whiskey, finally he tossed it back, savoring the burn and hoping it would warm him.

"Women lead with their vulnerabilities", he once read. Whoever wrote that sage piece of advice never met Kate Beckett. She led with her strengths, namely a driving desire to see justice – whether to criminals or for victims – done. That passion to do the right thing at whatever cost was paired with a sharp, educated mind, a seemingly limitless capacity for empathy, the organizational and analytical skills of an Army Chief of Staff, the attention to detail of a micro-manager, and an all-too-thorough understanding of human frailties.

Her vulnerabilities were buried far beneath the NYPD detective persona she wore as an emotional bulletproof vest. To most observers, she was a very attractive woman who kept both events and people at a distance. She was often described as lithe, lean, and long-legged with a thousand-yard stare. Those unlucky people would describe her as obdurate and unyielding with a very flat emotional affect. They only saw what she allowed them to see. For those fortunate few who could see through her defenses, there was more, much more. Like the ceramic plates of her vest, she was not as strong she wished to appear. She had vulnerabilities underneath those formidable barriers she had erected to keep herself sane amidst the pain of unexpected loss. She loved completely and without reserves if she allowed herself the luxury of love. She did very infrequently as she knew all too well that love meant surrendering hostages to the bitch called Fortune.

He had learned the hard way that she was somewhat brittle. It took less force to break her than he expected. She could reach her yield point in surprising ways. She could be cracked. And, may the Gods forgive him; he shattered her.

_Six months before._

He should be asleep next to her. His mind is racing, transitioning from one topic to the next with no pause – or reason. He is over-tired and his mind will not slow enough to allow him the relaxing pleasure of a good night's sleep. When he is like this, he knows writing is a waste of electrons. Any words that flow from his fingers into his laptop tonight will never survive to be edited, let alone published.

She is a genius. The songs all do make sense. Of course, there are a lot of women in his life to whom he could be referring. His home and professional lives are orchestrated by women. At home, he has his mother and his daughter, and he understands that he is privileged to share their home even if his AmEx bill has way too many digits to the left of the decimal point.

At work, he has Gina, his publisher, and Paula, his publicist and chief cutthroat, and at the precinct, he has (had) Beckett and Lanie. Each of the women is formidable, and all make him a better author and man. He has seen two of the four naked, married and divorced one, calls three by their first names, wants to marry the one he calls by her surname, and still does not understand why one works with him.

Of course, one of his colleagues, his partner is how he introduces her, is now a big part of his home life as well. She is the one he wants to marry. She is the one who makes the songs make sense, even, especially, the really sappy ones. Luckily, all four of them seem to get along, but it could be awkward. Or the setup line to a joke. One ex-wife, one publicist, one feisty best friend who sees right through him, and one future wife walk into a bar … a bar he owns. What could go wrong? Oh yeah, his mother could be drinking with them because he will be paying their bar tab.

He is in love with Kate Beckett, and she is in love with him. (Wow that sounds like the lyrics from a song Alexis likes. Not like the words of a best-selling (26 times!) author.) He knows he is a lucky man as she could have anyone, but she chose, she chooses, him. He knows she is the last woman he will ever love. They have not yet exchanged vows or even discussed marriage, but he knows – and she knows – that this is it for both of them. That thought both thrills him and calms him. The thrill is that Kate Beckett is his and that he is hers. The calm is that he knows it is so right. They just fit.

He now understands more about his first marriage and why it failed. Yes, Meredith cheated on him, but that was the result, not the cause. The reality is that he loved her and she loved him, but neither loved enough to make it work. Even Alexis was not enough for them to put each other first. When she moved to LA for her career, he could have gone with her, or she could have put her marriage before her acting. But he chose NYC over her, and she chose Hollywood over him. The rest was just the inevitable. If Kate wants to move to London or Miami, he will go. She is more important to him than where he lives. She is home.

He also understands why Gina left him and that marriage, his second, failed, and the blame is all his. He fell in love with the idea of love, charming Gina as his career, linked to hers, blossomed. But he never truly loved her, and he knows it. That is the reason he kept her from Alexis; he knew the relationship, the marriage, was destined to fail. He never shared himself with Gina even though she pushed at him to do so. He left her emotionally before she physically left him. But she was not right for him; he knows that now.

Relationships are work; he gets that now. But he needs the right woman to inspire him to put in the work, so that even work is love. For four years, the right person has been and is Kate Beckett. He intends it to be true for at least another forty. That is why rings have been on his mind.

Rings are tricky shit. His requirements for an engagement ring and wedding band are in slight conflict with what he knows she likes or will tolerate. His enumerated list is pretty simple: 1) It has to fit his idea of her, and 2) It has to be able to be seen by any man and some women on the make (he is okay with the women on the make… he thinks) anywhere on the planet. This has complicated the whole ring shopping project.

After all, she has to wear The Rock (codeword for small token of his love) and not shove it down his throat. Right now, his best plan is three rings: 1) The big engagement ring for formal occasions, 2) the everyday engagement ring that she can wear at work, and 3) a wedding band that she can wear everywhere. He is pretty sure that she is not going to accept three rings, but he knows she, unlike his ex-wives, will not wear The Rock all of the time or perhaps any of the time.

Not wearing The Rock means she needs another ring. He needs others to see that she is off the market; well, he admits at oh-so-dark hundred, that is not exactly true. He needs others to see that she is his. He did not survive Demming, Josh, and Scotland freaking Yard to let another man think he might have a chance with her. It does not matter than the logical portion of his mind understands that she is faithful to a fault, that cheating is anathema to her soul. This is all about the insecurities that underpin and drive his public persona. He has to stake his claim, knowing that if she ever learned of this internal monologue she would, with no pity or hesitation, eviscerate him.

To make his statement that he is hers and she is his, she has to have an engagement ring. And she has to have a wedding band. Tricky shit indeed, especially because his beloved is able and willing to put the hurt on suspects who are double her weight, her soaking wet weight. The Rock does not really make sense when she is kicking ass and taking names. So she needs a Work Ring. Not to mention, does he go traditional with a diamond or something else. What about cut? Platinum? White gold? Gold? Tungsten carbide for work? Too many choices and too many opportunities to end up swallowing a piece of jewelry deemed unacceptable.

Obviously, this ring thing needs some more thought. Alexis might have some good ideas. Lanie might have some ideas. His jeweler guy might have some good ideas. Even Mother might; may his soul be damned for thinking such a thought. But that is a minor issue. It is not like he cannot afford it, whatever it is.

So why is he so afraid? Oh, yes, he is very afraid of what is to come. Afraid, the whole ring problem will become moot. What is the source of that fear? In a word, the problem is BILLY. And, yes, he thinks the name in all capital letters. BILLY is that sort of problem. BILLY is the third party in the relationship, and the one most likely to cause it to end. BILLY is trouble for Richard Castle, trouble of his own making. If he would have known what it would lead to, he never would have made the calls that introduced BILLY to Kate Beckett.

Castle still wonders how saying so-to-speak, "Thank you" turned into a secret that he just knows will cause one heck of a bad argument. Bad he thinks, as in screaming and, he really fears, running. Those long legs in those high heels running away from him and never coming back are what BILLY may mean. That is the nightmare he has when he does sleep. For the first time, he feels that the road to Hell is indeed paved with the best of intentions. How does something that he knows to be a good thing, the right thing, turn into the latest cause of his long-time nemesis, insomnia? Into another pothole on this road they are destined to travel? Or is it a sinkhole that will swallow him whole, never to be seen again?

At 4:00 AM per the Rolex Daytona that sits mocking him on his nightstand, he has been awake and pondering his fate for more than two hours. Two hours of trying to write his way out of the mess. Two hours that he should have been using to sleep next to her, touching her, are wasted. Touching is not only allowed; it is now expected. If he cannot sleep, he can at least watch (keep watch?) over her and cuddle. The black tank top and boy shorts demand that he cuddle. He is still trying to convince her that clothes are better not worn in bed, but her counter-arguments are good. Teenager. Mother. The women in his life conspire against him for him.

He knows he is not going to be able to go back to sleep, but he is not in a hurry to start his day. She finally is learning the joy of sleeping in on lazy mornings. As long as she is in bed, he would be happy to stay right there, next to her. After all, she is lying next to him, and she no longer has a job that forces her out of bed at all hours.

She no longer has the Job, the capital letter signifying how this occupation is different from other mere careers. That is why he thinks about the Work Ring versus The Rock. He knows or thinks he knows that she will go back for it is the Job. But for now, he is rejoicing in her sabbatical.

It took long enough for them to get to where they are, and he is enjoying everything that once was only fantasy. And the reality is actually greater than the fantasy. And not just in bed; in fact, out of bed, the non-sexual part of their life together, is amazing. The sex is great, beyond great really, but the connection they shared is unlike anything of his experience.

When they get into the zone, not only do they finish each other's sentences, but the words themselves are superfluous. Full discussions are had with nothing more than a few gestures, eye movements, and smiles. He has a good imagination, good enough to earn a very fine living, but life with her truly is beyond anything he could conceive. And that is how he got to "Thank you". Well, that is sort of how it started.

If he is truly honest with himself, as his insomnia so harshly demands by not allowing his mind to stop creating and exploring scenarios, one after another, his good idea gone awry germinated at the moment that night her apartment exploded and started growing the next morning when she made breakfast for his family. Specifically when she slapped his hand going for the bacon with the spatula. That moment is so her – and him. He is impulsive, and she is disciplined, bound by the idea of right and wrong.

That night and the next morning is when he understood two things that had been on the fringe of his conscious mind, but never truly internalized until he almost lost her for good. That night is when he admitted to himself he has feelings for her, feelings beyond what he should as her shadow, feelings beyond what a writer should feel for his muse, and feelings beyond what one partner is allowed to feel for another.

She is his Helen, and why he would not launch a thousand ships for her, he is not able to deny her (or himself if it is for her – after all, she really did not ask for the dresses, the shoes, the briefcase, the necklace, the …) much else. It is why he stuck with her even when most of her words were efforts to drive him away. The little smiles and small gestures, the way her eyes lit up for a second when she first saw him before she reasserted her formidable control; those are what kept him coming back, each day carrying a cup of coffee like it is the ticket to an E-ride at Disney. Her smile was and is the ride, and it is better than Space Mountain. Her real smile, the one that lights up her face, and the one that makes his day is his measure. A good day is when he sees that smile; no matter what else happens; it is a good day when she smiles.

It is also when he knew he owes her a debt he could never repay. And the thought of a debt repaid is the kernel of the good idea that grew into the plant whose roots now extended so deep into this relationship that he could not see how to cleave them from him without slicing him from her as well.

It all started when he ran into her apartment, hoping against hope that she is still alive. His relief at finding her mostly unharmed is counteracted by his lust at finding her nude and naked. Those are two different things, as one is a lack of clothes and one is a lack of barriers.

Seeing her nude was amazing, and, to be honest, stoked his nighttime fantasies for many a night. After all, he is a man, and she is everything he could ever want in a woman and more. Her lithe figure, flat toned stomach, long muscular legs, and the high pert breasts, all topped by a beautiful face with the most expressive eyes are enough to reduce him to stumbling over breathing, let alone words. Her hair is a wonder.

She literally takes his breath away. He figured that another minute or so of her nude in front of him would lead to brain death from oxygen starvation. What a way to go! Plus he found a cure for smoke inhalation as he does not breathe while she stands before him unclothed. Not a practical cure, but one nonetheless.

Of course, he would not take advantage of her tragedy, but he is so stunned by the fact that she survived and by how damn good she looked out of the severe clothing she wore like a knight's armor on the Job that he forgot to offer her his coat. Instead his composure, rocked by the explosion, his fears of losing her before he has her, and by her classical beauty, left him, and he is reduced to stating the obvious fact that her robe, and most of her wardrobe, is on fire. Some writer he is. But seeing her naked emotions later that night, at the loss of her home, just tore at his understanding of what his duty to her is. At the most primal level, deep in his bones, he knows this is his fault. After all, the guy who blew up her home is trying to match himself against Nikki Heat.

Nikki Heat is oh-so-his fault. Yes, Kate was and is the inspiration, but he brought her to life and made her famous. And that fame, while it made him loads of money, brought her attention she did not want or need. In fact, that fame made her uncomfortable and threatened her ability to perform. The NYPD is a testosterone-laced organization, and Kate long ago was inured to the taunts of her fellow cops, but he is not. Plus he lacks her control; he trusts and acts on his impulses. That is, he has to admit, not always the best decision.

Some of what he heard from Kate's supposed colleagues, brothers wearing dark blue, disgusted him, and on one occasion, he has words with the uniform that is particularly insistent at a crime scene that Kate made her way up the ladder by lying down with her heels up in the air. That conversation was more physical than verbal, and he returned home with bruises and a reminder that healing at forty takes longer than healing at twenty did – but with Kate's honor avenged. He thought Kate never knew, but he knows Esposito sees, hears, or absorbs what happened in that strange cop way he has. Esposito never addressed it directly, but he mentioned at the end of an unrelated conversation about baseball that occasionally taking one for the team is what has to be done and mentioned the uniform got the team's message. He then reminded Castle it was Castle's turn to pick up the bar tab for the next team happy hour. Of course, it is always his turn; their money is no good when they are with him. He likes Esposito even more after the lively detective made him feel both part of the team and thanked him for having Beckett's back.

Kate, though, is a very private person, more comfortable not being the center of attention. Of course, when she dresses for a night out on the town, she literally draws men and women to her. He would swear that the floor sloped to where she stood as the density of people surrounding her increased with every passing minute. But he knows she would have been much happier without people knowing that she is the inspiration for Nikki Heat. Plus, her home would still be intact. Oh, yeah, he is to blame here. He not only is the cause of the loss of her privacy; he enabled the destruction of her home. He may not have planted the explosive or pressed the detonator, but he sure led the guy who did both to her. Sure, he knows the arguments that his writing is not the cause, but if there has been no book, there would have been no bomb. Hard to argue with the logic; he is the cause of her suffering. And that is the last thing he wanted to cause. He wanted tears from her, but tears of joy, not of loss, sorrow and suffering.

Dealing with Neanderthals is one thing, but dealing with exploding apartments is something else. Castle has no experience, but he knows what he wants to do. He wants to fix it. So he does in the way he also does. He gives of himself and of the money. And like everything else with Kate, she always says "No" to him, and he does it anyway.

He still remembers the conversation when he first tried. It haunts him even now.

_They were in her Crown Vic, off to chase (run down really) a lead on the case that led to her apartment being bombed. The sky was as grey as his demeanor. Rain was the air, and his mood is only raised by the fact that he sat less than three feet away from her. She still has bruises from the dive into her bathtub before the explosion and cuts from the shrapnel that still found its way to her. She is alive (thank the Universe!) but she is hurting, both physically and emotionally. She has almost died due to him. Died! And her home! Her father's watch!_

_His tentative opening, "Kate, your apartment… the reason, uhh, I want to do something to help."_

_He looked at her; saw her left eyebrow arched with the question as she softly replied with the hint of a smile on her lips, "What do you mean? You are helping. I AM staying in your guest bedroom, you ARE feeding me, and I KNOW you called a personal shopper. Which, by the way, I am not going to let happen. I can buy my own clothes. Been doing it for years. So more "help"?"_

_The last few lines are delivered with more Detective Beckett than Kate Beckett, so he knows he has to be careful._

"_Kate, my book is why this guy is focused on you. MY book. Allow me to make it up to you. I have the money -"._

"_No, you are not paying for the renovation of my apartment! Are you crazy? What kind of woman do you think I am?"_

"_Ahh, I thought I would just give you the money so you can choose a new place."_

_He squirmed in his seat as her voice rose in both octave and volume. Her face wore the look that he remembered all too well when he first sat across from her in an interrogation room. "WHAT! GIVE ME MONEY TO BUY A NEW APARTMENT! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"_

"_Castle, in your misguided mind, you think buying me an apartment is a good thing. But it is not. If word got out, people would think I am your mistress, screwing you in exchange for a nice apartment. I am no one's kept woman, certainly not yours."_

_With those words, her rage abates, but her anger is more than palpable. He steals a look at her, and her jaw (that beautiful face) is tensed. She is focusing on the traffic. The conversation is over. He knows enough to not push directly. He would find a way; he always did. Always._

Permission not granted, of course, he calls his accountant. "There is an account setup at Chase Manhattan for NYPD Detective Kate Beckett – yes, the same one, and yes, the one whose apartment was bombed. Donate from the usual anonymous charity account $500,000. I also want to get new vests for every officer assigned to the 12th Precinct. I will mail you the model they use, the sizes and quantities needed."

"Are you sure? Not only is that a lot of money, but the publicity would be good for you."

"Yes, anonymous. It has to be that way. Thanks."

The next day, he makes a call to his tax attorney. He tells the attorney what he wants, gets a barrage of questions in return, and the tax attorney tells him he needed some time to complete this request as an IRS tax ruling is a good idea. He is still not the best at biding his time, Kate Beckett notwithstanding. For her he can wait. For others, even Alexis, waiting is foreign to him. Finally, his patience gone, he firmly states, "Just do it. No arguments. Pay any taxes out of the usual holding company account, not out of the new account. And get the donation out as soon as possible. This needs to be done quickly. "

"Okay, I get it. What should we call this account?"

That is not an idle question as all of Castle's accounts are named, mostly with their function or for obscuring who the true owner is. It has started after the success of his second book, when the money started accumulating. He needed some way to provide for his family's future. He remembered that Kirk Kerkorian named his holding company after his two daughters, Tracy and Linda. That became "Tracinda". In a similar vein, Castle's holding company is named "Marlexis". Marlexis is somewhat of a conglomerate, owning things from real estate to small businesses to commodity investments to Treasuries. With that many interests, account names are a way to remind Castle what the heck he is dealing with when someone called. While he is not a full-time investment guru, he wanted to make sure he did not suffer the same fate as Mother. His money would not be swindled or embezzled. He needed it for those he loved. That is why Martha's name forms the first syllable of the holding company.

"Call it … call it 'BILLY', like the Yankee manager Billy Martin, but all caps. I spell, Bravo, India, Lima, Lima, Yankee. Let me know when it is done."

A week later, with the account is up and running, he called his accountant and business manager, letting them both know his wishes and that the decision is final. That being done, he has sealed his doom. BILLY is the literal bull in the china shop of his relationship with Beckett.

At first, it is nothing. But then, it became something. It all started after the Great Recession, when the Fed flooded the markets with cash. His investment advisers, knowing that each additional dollar is the engine of inflation, invested him in commodities, especially oil and copper. As oil and copper both tripled in value, so did his net worth. He also directed investments in both Apple and Google, being the geek he is. In fact, he quintupled his net worth in less than three years, with the investment returns, the Nikki Heat book royalties and movie licensing fee, and the revived interest in the Storm novels. BILLY grew as well; in fact, even more, as the taxes on its gains are not paid from that account.

By the time, she came to him that night, soaking wet, BILLY has the largest balance of any of his accounts. The flame and heat of their coupling is the start of what he knows is his last and best chance for lasting love. He is determined to do this right, but he did not realize that BILLY is also in this relationship. Three is a crowd.

The morning after that cataclysmic night, he learns she has resigned from the Job she loved. She has given up everything for him. He is both thrilled and appalled. The thrilled part is both the physical, OMG, and the emotional. When he first propositioned her almost four years before, she rejected him (she always says, "No") and titillated him with her response to his quip of how good they would be together. Now, he thanks the Universe for her being smart enough to deny him the pleasure of bedding her that night. Because it would have been just that one night, and he would have lost the greatest chance of happiness he ever has.

She has more than hinted over the years that she is good in bed, but she has lied. She is not good in bed; she is phenomenal. They are phenomenal. His reaction to the thing she did with her teeth worrying her bottom lip should have been a clue. Because she worried parts of him with her teeth that just blew him away. He also is able to do better than satisfy her. He knows she is sensitive to him, and that they shared a unique rapport, but he got a much better understanding of how deep that rapport went after their third time that night. They each nudged and guided the other to maximize pleasure with no hurt feelings or resentments. He seems to instinctively know what she wanted, what she needed, and she could raise him to the brink without seeming to even try. At this level, they just worked.

Emotionally, he is gone. His heart belongs to her. Just seeing her really smile makes him want to weep. Watching her eyes darken with desire and lighten with release. Being able to touch her without fear of repercussions causes the muscles in his abdomen to quiver with desire. He has experienced this intense desire in the past, but it passed as soon as he has bedded the woman in question. Now that he has been with Kate, his stomach muscles quiver all the more. When they slept, they slept entwined with each other. That first night, he slept better in two hours than he has slept in the past two months. He is where he belongs, with her.

The appalled part is that she has given up her professional identity for him. He is happy she has set aside her mother's case, but terrified that she will come to resent him for it. It also reminds him about BILLY.

So he tries to get a sense of what she is thinking about her career plans over the next couple of days, especially when he takes her in the black Escalade to his family's home in the Hamptons. She has never been, and he knows the house is somewhat awe inspiring and threatening to newcomers. It is neither particularly large nor ostentatious but it sits on a huge lot right on the beach. And the interior is expensively and tastefully decorated. Like the loft that she knows, only friends and family come to this home, but it makes more of a statement about how wealthy he really is than the loft ever could.

She recognizes the names of his neighbors as she has seen some in concert and others in movies. As a detective in Manhattan, she is not unused to celebrity, but she has never shared ZIP codes with any. Now she does. It does not help that when they arrive, she finds a closet in the master bedroom full of clothes and another full of shoes that she would have bought if she has an unlimited budget and the time to buy them. She pushes back on that with the stare that she uses, used to use, he reminds himself, on suspects.

"Castle, do you want to tell me something? Whose clothes are hanging in the closet? Whose shoes are these? Is there another woman?" The last line is delivered with an arched eyebrow as she knows there is not another woman, and she knows he bought the wardrobe for her.

When he hears the cold tone in her voice, he has the manners to look offended. He slowly approaches her, taking her in his arms. She accepts that, but her face shows she is worried that the playboy may still be close to surface. He sees this, hates himself for it, and murmurs into the hair above her right ear, "Kate, there is, there has been, no other woman for me in two years. There will only be you. I purchased this stuff for you when we agreed to come here. You need clothes, and I could buy them. So I did."

He is surprised when her response is nothing more than biting her lip and a subtle nod, and "Thanks." And she leans further into him, molding herself to his chest, standing up on her toes, flicks her eyes from his eyes down to his lips, and kisses him. He instantly gets painfully erect. She stays within the circle of his arms and whispers in that velvet voice, "That is thoughtful. I appreciate it."

She pauses, her voice drops, "Do NOT ever do it again, or the next time you see me naked, these will all be so out of fashion that they will remind you of bell bottoms. Got it?"

He chuckles, "Got it" while inwardly wincing. The erection is gone about that fast as well. Well, not that fast. Oh, well. It could have been worse. And that gives him hope. She needs to get used to the money and what it means. And some of the outfits he has bought for her are damn sexy, especially a few of the bathing suits and the one green dress that complemented her gorgeous eyes and hugged her curves like his Ferrari corners on Watkins Glen.

For weeks, they enjoy each other's company and the pleasures of a summer at the beach. When the sun shines, they swim, lay on the beach, shop, hve long, leisurely lunches and dinners, some of which he cooks, some of which she cook, and some of which both cook. Sometimes they would go out to eat, mostly on rainy days when they just have to get out of house. They wander the local shops, mostly for fresh produce, a few bottles of wine, and just to pass the time together. He carefully watches her reactions to various pieces of jewelry, and he manages to find a pair of tasteful and elegant earrings that would make accessory for that green dress.

He gets to enjoy the sight of her in some of those bathing suits. A few she only wears inside his fenced back yard alongside the pool just off the deck of the house. Those are the ones that not so much show off too much skin, but do not cover particular patches of skin she wants to keep hidden from the world. Those are the scars from the shooting and the surgeries she underwent to save her life. He loves her as she is, scars and all. To him, those scars remind him of what he could have lost and her strength, but he knows the scars to her are reminders of a painful past, not so much physical, but emotional.

Knowing what he knows now, he never would have told her, "I love you", as the blood pumped out of her in that cemetery. He meant the words, but the words became entangled with her pain of recovering from the sniper's bullet. She could not separate the words from the memories of lying helpless, of the horrible pain, of being winded from walking from the bed to the shower, and of the nightmares. The nightmares come all too often, especially if he is not holding her in his arms as they slept. Some are his, as he relived the nightmare from last summer. Hers are worse.

That became clear to him after she woke him late one night, still trapped within her nightmare. Her small fist, with all the more pressure due to its compact size and her impressive strength, slammed into his chest, jolting him awake, as she screamed, "Why did you jump in front of the bullet? Your family needs you! I need you!" That both warmed his heart and made his heart stutter. He pulled her into his arms, and she immediately quieted, still asleep. He, though, never slept again that night, terrified at what her dreams imply. Her PTSD is still there, and he does not know what triggers it. He knows stress is a trigger and having no job to pay the bills is a huge stressor.

So he tries again to discern what she is planning, what her long-term goals are, and where he fits into them.

After a clam bake one hot humid summer night while they held hands in the sticky heat of the evening and strolled on the sands of the beach, he delicately approaches the career subject yet again. "So… any idea on what comes after the summer vacation?"

She squeezes his hand a little harder, gets a little smaller, and in a quiet voice, "I need to decide whether I can be a cop and give up my mother's case. I am not sure I can, and you have made it clear that you will walk away from me if I get caught up in that case."

"Kate, if you still want to be a cop, then be a cop. If you want to go back to school, do that. If you want to study Russian literature, do that. If you want to be an attorney, do that. If you want to manage your mother's foundation, do that. I will support your decision. I only ask that you let me be a part, a big part, I hope, of your life."

"Castle, I need money, and the only marketable skills I have mean I have to be a cop." Her eyes tear up as she says this. "I am afraid that if I go back to work, I will lose you. Even if I avoid my mother's case, we could no longer be partners. That is a regulation."

He turns her into him, drawing her into an embrace that is supposed to be nothing more than comfort, but still has more than a hint of that electricity, the hum, they generate. Her head fits comfortably under his chin. He decides to ignore her mother's case for now as he softly states, "Kate, I am sure I can work around the regulations as long as Bob is in office. If you want to go back to the NYPD, it will happen. On the other hand, I do not want you making life-altering decisions solely on the need for a paycheck."

He steps out of the embrace, unconsciously putting some distance between them, pauses, and runs his hand through his hair. She notes he is nervous as that is one of his tells and studies him. He reaches for her hand and starts to rub his thumb in a circular pattern over the back of her hand. "You may not have noticed, but I earned a lot of money from a character that is more you than any creation of mine than I will admit to ANYONE else."

"I would be happy to-ugh" as he swallows the words. He notices that her eyes are greener, and her jaw is once again tensed. She also is no longer holding his hand, but is definitely in his personal space. How did she move so quickly? Her eyes flash at him and narrow as she makes a decision, one he does not yet comprehend. He idly wonders where her sidearm is. No, he thinks, she will not shoot me. Will she?

Her voice is laced with menace and the vein in her forehead pulsed as she whispered, "You would be happy to do what?" He is both aroused and terrified. _Where is that gun?_

Arousal, as usual, wins, and he smirks and raises his eyebrow as he flippantly replies, "Take care of you, of course." And he focuses intently on her lips, slowly runs his gaze down her body, taking in all of her delectable curves, and even more deliberately runs his gaze back up, while leaning further into her. He makes it very clear what he means, and it has nothing to do with her health or safety – but it also does. He is willing to give her anything she desires.

Based on the flush that covers her chest to her cheeks, she also feels the increase in the strength of the electricity that crackles between them. While it is always there if they are in the same room, each of them has the ability to ratchet up the level when desired. Usually she does it to him with a subtle glance, a few words, or by biting her lip and running her tongue over it, leaving it wet and shining. He, of course, uses words, his expressive face, and his sheer physical presence. He feels her react to him, and then panics as the look on her face changes. He is reminded of how good she is at getting people … men… him to confess. Did she just play him? Oh My God!

The vein in her forehead pulses, seemingly in time with his suddenly panicked breathing. "Take care of me, huh… HOW?"


	2. Missed Warnings

**Author's Note**: _Sorry for the short chapter. Beckett is hard for me to write, so I have struggled with this piece of the story. BTW, I own stuff, but not any of these characters. I am working towards a goal, but there are a few turns. I have always wanted to explore some of the issues caused by Beckett's relationship with Castle, a man who has the Mayor on speed dial._

The run was not helping. Usually the exercise both strengthened her mind and cleared her head. This time it just fatigued her further. She could not believe what today had revealed. She ran and ran, not seeing anything around her, not feeling anything. She just ran. Her body performed while her mind just saw that room, those people, those numbers….

This morning was her first day back on the Job. She was resuming the mantle of NYPD Detective Second Grade Kate Beckett. She was once again acting as an agent of justice, of closure for families who lost a loved one to violence.

This was her second time in a little over a year of returning to the Job, and she knew how the process was supposed to work. That was why she was surprised when Captain Gates called to summon her to the One Police Plaza aka "The Puzzle Palace". She was expecting to complete some paperwork at the 12th, a trip to Rodham's Neck to qualify with her service weapon and her backup gun, some more paperwork, and a trip back to the 12th. At that time, Gates would set out the rules, she would acquiesce, and she would be back.

She hoped she might get her team back, but she expected to spend a few months as a desk jockey and a few more months as a detective on someone's team before getting back her team. That was part of the punishment, to be the low (wo)man on the totem pole. To learn what she threw away when she tossed the shield away with not so much as a backward glance. If she was lucky, she might once again get to work with Ryan and Esposito due to their team's closure rate. Gates may not have been thrilled with the dynamic, but she loved the results. The 12th often led the NYPD in homicide closures and was never far from the top of the list. That is how Captains became Deputy Inspectors, and she knew Gates wanted that promotion.

Thinking about the call, she was surprised by what Gates did not say. She replayed the conversation.

"Miss Beckett, this is Captain Gates. I trust I am not disturbing you." The tone conveyed that Gates really did not care if her call interrupted something. She was formal, even more so than usual.

Beckett responded, "Sir, how may I help you?" Beckett knew that there was going to be some groveling in her future. It was definitely a career-limiting move to toss her shield on the boss's desk and tell her, "Keep it." Fixing this was not going to be easy. The shield was hard to earn and should not have been so easily discarded.

Gates did not answer so much as almost read from a script. "It is my understanding that you wish to return from your suspension and no longer want to resign your position as Detective Second Grade. Is that correct?"

Beckett clearly and, hopefully, stated, "Yes, sir, I would like to return to work."

Gates went on as if Beckett had never spoke, "You are entitled to representation from the DEA. Do you wish to have your union delegate present?"

Gates referral to "the DEA" did not mean the Drug Enforcement Agency. In this sense, the DEA is the Detectives' Endowment Association, the union that represents NYPD detectives in administrative dealings with the brass. Beckett knew that Gates could be in hot water for suspending her without her delegate present, especially as the current contract was getting close to expiration and open to negotiation. The DEA could never have enough grievances against the brass during the collective bargaining process. She figured this was a test, and she wanted to pass. She also despised her delegate as she thought he was more interested in the DEA than in doing his job, namely proving who committed crimes.

"No, sir, I do not want any union representation. I am willing to take responsibility for what I did."

"Miss Beckett, I suggest that you avail yourself on the services of your delegate, including the attorney, as prescribed by the contract between the NYPD and the DEA."

In retrospect, that should have been a flag. Two flags. Waving … red… flags. One was the suggestion to avail herself of an attorney and the second was the address, "Miss". It should have been "Detective".

"Very well, Miss Beckett, I will note your refusal, but I am required to inform you that you may request your delegate at any time. Please report to room 847 at 1PP at 9:30 tomorrow morning."

Without waiting for Beckett's response, Gates ended the call.

That was another warning that she failed to understand. At the time, Beckett was focused on getting back her shield and on figuring a way to once again allow Castle to "shadow" her. She had a partner and she intended to keep him, both at work and at home. She surely did not want to break in a new partner, and she was no longer willing to go it alone. She knew all too well that she needed the perspective that Castle offered to balance her tendencies to subsume herself in the Job. She needed Castle to be at her side. He made her lighter, as if he absorbed some of the pain that she saw.

Some detective she was. Either she was rusty from her "sabbatical" or too much in love to hear the warning couched in the bureaucratic words. Gates was trying to let her know that she was in trouble. Oh, shit, Gates had her back. That is why she called her. Otherwise, she would have arrived at the 12th only to find IAB there waiting for her. That would have started rumors that would not help Beckett - or Gates. Instead, Gates moved the meeting to 1PP, keeping it out of her house. The rumors would start, but there would be fewer of them. That was a classic brass hat tactic, and she missed it.

Gates was trying to prepare her, and she missed the signals. She went in unprepared, and IAB got what they wanted, her honest reaction to their revelation, disguised as questions meant to "clear up some concerns".


	3. 1PP and the RTCC

**Author's Note**: _This really should be part of chapter 2, but. Beckett is hard for me to write. BTW, I own stuff, but not any of these characters. I am working towards a goal, but there are a few turns. I have always wanted to explore some of the issues caused by Beckett's relationship with Castle, a man who has the Mayor on speed dial. I hope this chapter helps explain the disconnect between the first and second chapters._

**Previously:**_ Gates was trying to prepare her, and she missed the signals. She went in unprepared, and IAB got what they wanted, her honest reaction to their revelation, disguised as questions meant to "clear up some concerns"._

She hated going to 1PP. There was no place to park unless you had an official vehicle with the NYPD placard, and the walk from the subway was a pain. Cabbies really did not want to pick up fares at 1PP as most cops were lousy backstreet drivers – and not the best tippers. Plus, it looked like rain today, just like yesterday. Not to mention the chair warmers that infested the place. Nothing good ever happened at 1PP other than promotions, and she was not expecting one of those. She just wanted her shield returned to her so she could once again be a productive member of society, a homicide detective.

She told Castle about the call from Gates and the meeting location over their dinner, and his solution was both expected (yet appreciated) and practical. He offered her, as he always did, the luxury of his car service. She thanked him and, for once, decided to take advantage of his kind offer. He was somewhat surprised by her acceptance yet the slight smirk that lurked in his deep blue eyes showed he was pleased. She knew without thinking he thought it was a sign of progress, a sign that she was becoming accustomed to his lifestyle, to the lifestyle he wanted them, as a couple, to share.

It often bothered her when he spent outrageous sums of money on her, and she tried, once their romance had fully blossomed, to get him to rein in those impulses. She was not comfortable with some of his gestures, not because of the gift, but because it was just too much for her. Her family was upper middle class, but Castle's was upper class. Not quite on the level of Bill Gates, but high enough to never need to consider the price tag of anything at any time. A want was enough to make it happen; there was no need to budget or to save. It often unnerved her when she saw him decide to make something happen. Money was no object, no concern, when it came to what he wanted – or thought she wanted.

She knew his goal, the point of all the stuff, was to make her happy, and she tried to enjoy what he offered. She understood he wanted the people he loved to enjoy with him the fruits of his success. He could be flashy in his spending, but it was not from a drive to keep up with the Joneses or the Trumps. It was just to make the people who were part of his life smile and laugh. She truly enjoyed the dining, the cups of coffee, the gifts of jewelry, the lovely dresses, the SHOES (oh, the shoes) and the trips, but she wanted to be, needed to be, an equal. Financially, she thought that was not possible unless she paid her own way.

She was grudgingly becoming used to the money and what it meant for their (her) future, but she was not comfortable with her acceptance because it was a tacit admission that financially he was in charge. They were partners, and partners are supposed to be equals in all things. So how could they be partners when his income dwarfed hers by an order of magnitude? Of course, she knew, deep down, that she was not comfortable with the idea that she did not need to work to help support them. She also knew that partners were never truly equal; each person was better at some things than the other, and the converse was also true. How partners complemented each other was the true measure of a successful partnership. Castle just happened to have a job where he was extremely well compensated financially for what he did. Her Job compensated her differently. It fulfilled her need for justice to matter, for her mother's murder to mean something other than pain and misery.

She knew that Castle was loaded, beyond loaded, but she did not love him for his bank account. She was not after him for money, fame, or what he could do for her career, but she had heard too may snide comments about why she allowed him to shadow her. And what "shadowing" meant. For a year, she thought all he wanted was to get her into his bed, so she was not surprised by what others said and thought. But he had surprised her. He stayed when every other man had left, came back when she pushed him away, offered her more than she ever expected, and never asked for more than she could give. He made his desires known but never forced his wishes upon her unless it was for her benefit. Then he would not be denied.

Slowly but surely he had infiltrated himself into every facet of her life. He was first an author that made a difference to her when she was lost, then an annoying shadow at work, then a partner and a friend, and now the One. She loved him for his kind heart (and hot bod), and she wanted people to see that. He was the One for her, and she knew that marriage was an inevitable step on the path of their shared life. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. She knew he was thinking about a ring, and there had been a few times she thought he might propose. False alarms or not the right time, but the time was near.

Marriage meant what was his was going to be hers, including the money. He had figured that out long before she had, and he was now gently acclimating her to the options that financial security meant. The car service was one of those options, and she was appreciative today. The car service saved her time and eliminated some of the stress that a trip to the Puzzle Palace generated. She wondered why Gates wanted the promotion to Deputy Inspector. It meant working at 1PP. She could never work here.

She exited the car and thanked (tipped) the driver just as a surprisingly cold rain began falling, validating her decision to accept Castle's offer. The tip was generous and the driver was one that Castle often reserved for Alexis, so she knew he would be attentive to her schedule. So it begins, she thought, as she walked to the doors of the NYPD headquarters. Without her shield, she was just a visitor, so she had to go through security, something that was new to her. She waited in line, removed her iPhone from her pocket, and dumped it into her purse. She placed the bag on the conveyor and waited for her turn to pass through the metal detector. She cleared the detector on the first pass, surprising and amusing her, and headed toward the large desk that was so obviously the "visitor's center". The sergeant on duty watched her sign in, asked for her ID, checked it against the electronic roster, and glanced down at her from his elevated position.

"Beckett, you need to go to room 859 for your interview."

She was surprised as Gates had told her "847". So she asked in her "Are you sure that this is your story?" interview tone, "Are you sure?"

The response was pure NYPD. "Lady, I can read and it says, 'eight' ... 'five' … 'nine'."

She thanked him, purely _pro forma _as she wasnot feeling particularly grateful, and headed to the elevator. Pressing the up button, she looked around 1PP. Now that she was in the depressingly gray (matched the rainy day) NYPD HQ, she remembered what was on the 8th floor of 1PP, the Real Time Crime Center. She recalled that the RTCC, as it was abbreviated, was the location of literally millions of criminal records and billions of public records. It also was the location from where the NYC security cameras in places like Times Square were monitored. It made no sense for a discussion about her return to duty to be held in the RTCC unless she was being reassigned. Was Gates kicking her out of the 12th? Was she going to be assigned to be a glorified security guard? Or as an analyst sifting through a variety of records? There was nothing wrong with those positions, but that was not the kind of work she expected to be doing or wanting to do.

An elevator door opened, and she got on with several other people, none of whom were speaking. She felt that a few people recognized her, but she did not have any names to put with the faces. That was not unusual as the NYPD was large, and she was well-known due to Nikki Heat, her apartment being destroyed, and her shooting last summer. She saw more action than most cops and had a movie coming out about her alter ego, so the looks were not a surprise. The old elevator finally reached her floor, and the door creaked open. She moved past a few people still in the elevator car, exited, got herself oriented, and found room 859. Other than the room number and a key card scanner, there was nothing to indicate the purpose of the room. The air was chilly in the hallway, something she attributed to the necessary cooling of the all of the computer servers used by the RTCC.

She knocked on the door, received no answer, and decided to take the initiative. She twisted the knob, and it turned, allowing her to push the door open. A hint of a smile crossed her face as she felt she had just passed a pop quiz. She walked inside the brightly lit room, allowing the door to close behind her. The first thing she noticed was the mosaic of flat-panel computer displays on the right hand wall, all seemingly off except for one currently showing the NYPD logo. The second thing she noticed, without being aware that she did so, is that this was an interview room, a room where cops like her questioned witnesses and suspects. A glance to her left confirmed her analysis as she faced what appeared to be a mirror, and, of course, was not. From the other side of that glass, she could be observed without her knowledge. She could suspect, but she could never know unless she was allowed into that other room which shared the trick wall.

Spinning quickly, she reached for the door knob. It turned; however, the door would not open. It appears she may have failed that pop quiz. Only then did she see the key card scanner next to the door. This door would not currently open from the inside unless someone scanned an electronic card whose sequence was authorized to unlock the door. Or if the security system was directed to do so. Or, she remembered, if there was a fire. So she could get out if she needed to do so. The question was, "Why was she in this room?"

The answer became apparent as the overhead fluorescent lights dimmed, the bank of displays brightened, and a picture formed on the mosaic of screens. The image background was a place she recognized, seeing as she had been there many times, and that understanding allowed her to piece together the subject matter. The picture showed something that was not too unusual, a couple walking along the sidewalk while leaning towards each other. Their limbs were comfortably intertwined, suggesting more than friendship. The woman's face tilted down focused not quite to her feet, while the man was looking at the woman alongside him. The man was unwittingly staring into the camera. While the image was not good enough to truly read subtle expressions, it was obvious this was a couple in love. One did not need to be a trained detective to read the body language. Beckett recognized the look on the man's face. It would be a surprise if she did not. After all, the picture was of Castle and her.

Obviously, the NYPD knew she was in love with Castle. That was not a promising development in her plan to go back to work, back to work with Castle. But this made no sense. Why would they care what she was doing with Castle after she informally submitted her resignation? She was not on duty or on call. She was entitled to a private life, and Castle was certainly not a felon. She knew that as she had reviewed his police record during the Tisdale case and she knew what he had been doing for the last four years. Mostly annoying and seducing her. And writing more bestsellers.

Then the picture changed. It now showed a money trail, one she partially recognized. It documented the flow of funds from an account she did not recognize to an account she did. The latter account was the one used by Dick Coonan to receive the payments he earned as a hired killer. What the hell did her mother's case have to do with this?

The image changed again as if the person in charge of this slideshow could read her mind. She wondered if Castle was proposing and immediately discarded the idea; he would never use Dick Coonan in any part of a marriage proposal. Castle … Rick knew what it had cost her to have to shoot Coonan to save him. He wanted to marry her, not take a beating from her. This time the image showed a picture she had focused on all too often, a picture of the alley in which her mother was killed. Immediately, she became enraged. This was outside the bounds of decency, and she would not stand for it.

"I do not know what is happening, but I am done with it. Come in here and talk with me or I am leaving!"

There was no response, further fueling the fire within her. The image on the mosaic of screens remained unchanged, showing that damned alley that haunted her nightmares and taunted her dreams.

Then it did change. The previous image with the money trail popped up, showing the linkage from some coward who hired others to kill through several intermediaries to Coonan's account. That image then shrunk to half size and shifted to the left half of the mosaic of screens. The system in here was really much nicer than the whiteboard she used at the 12th. The right half of the massive display then went from black to a new image. It was a statement showing the value of a linked bank account. The balance in the account was very impressive as it had two commas to the left of the decimal point. It also had three numbers to the left of the leftmost comma. The actual balance was just over $163 million as of a week ago. Whoever was behind the murder of Kate's mother was wealthy. She was not surprised as the guy had ex-military as his killers, the ability to steal and return a helicopter, and influence everywhere.

While she was absorbing that, the images moved and the screen reformed. Now there were three images on the composite screen. The third image showed another money trail, but the trail made no sense to Kate. This one showed money flowing from the same account that financed one of Coonan's murder-for-hires to the account with the $163 million balance. Huh?

Was this all about money laundering? Is that what her mom had found?

Then the screen reformed again. A fourth image appeared. It was a computer printout showing the identity of the beneficial owner of the $163 million account. The name of that person was the answer to Beckett's personal $64 million question. Who was behind the murder of Johanna Beckett?

Then she got the answer, and the room spun. She recognized the social security number of the account holder. She had that number memorized. She could not believe it. It had to be a cruel joke.

Why a joke? It was the number the Social Security Administration assigned to Katherine Beckett thirty-three years before.


End file.
